


The War of Curls

by heartofcapitalisticglass



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-02
Updated: 2019-04-02
Packaged: 2019-12-31 23:59:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18324593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofcapitalisticglass/pseuds/heartofcapitalisticglass
Summary: Tommy fanboys over what he thinks is the only thing he should be getting down on his knees for besides Jesus.





	The War of Curls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ShipperTrash140109](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShipperTrash140109/gifts).



Tommy has seen a lot. The remnants of frenzied oxygen bubbling from drowning soldier lungs. How the glimmering ray of light hazily wavered through the metallic musty water to beam its path to survival. From the way how the lifeless bodies floated back ashore as if nature was graciously gifting back humanity what they deserved for wrecking havoc over the gorgeous blue-green waves of the English Channel. **  
**

Tommy has seen his life flash before his eyes when the German Messerschmitt gleefully descended to finish off what was left of the Allies on the beach of Dunkirk. You see, he has witnessed a lot for someone his age. Some of which will he thinks he has burnt the memories of but the remaining ashes cloud together to form as ghosts to haunt his mind for the rest of his life.  
  
But nothing - _**nothing**_ \- comes close to the most glorious sight of them all.  
  
Gibson’s curls.  
  
Is possible that something sticking out of someone’s scalp can atone for all the horrific acts of war? Is it normal - **_no_** is it healthy that something can be so soothing for his aching soul? They are perched on the edge of the beach, the wave softly lapping near their feet as they await for some miracle to occur. Waiting for someone to take them back home. But Tommy is slowly starting to stop caring.  
  
“You’re like a hot cuppa after a long day of work,” Tommy muses to himself in a daze as he continues to stare at how the hints of gold reflect off the mess of Gibson’s dark mussed up curls as the two soak in the seeping sunlight. Just how are those curls so perfect? Unreal. Almost unfair. Those curls have a life of their own. More of a life than he has anyway.  
  
Gibson stares at him in confusion but a wary affectionate smile tugs on his lips as he gazes back at the younger one. “Hm?”  
  
Tommy hesitates. He doesn’t know how to break it to him. He just wants to joyfully sing out, _Gibson your hair is so fucking perfect, you set Mona Lisa to shame, I could stare at those curls all day, don’t ever chop your hair off! Boy!_  
  
He bites down on his lip uncertainly - very unsure of how to approach this newfound obsession - which Gibson takes as an invitation to sneak another chaste peck on the lips. But before the older male can move back, Tommy desperately locks him in with his arms around his neck. Gibson smiles at him tenderly, his confusion deepening at Tommy’s strange behaviour but it doesn’t wipe the affection off his face for a second.  
  
“I’m… sorry…” Tommy apologises. Why is he apologising again? It should be Gibson saying sorry to his face for shoving those swoon-worthy fucking perfect curls in his face. His fingertips dig into the other male’s neck momentarily from the arising tension that Gibson’s curls are driving him to but Gibson himself is hissing out in confusion as he bops the tip of his nose against Tommy’s to silently ask him what’s going on.  
  
“What shampoo do you use?” Tommy groans out in agony as his eyes remain fixated on his curls, his fingertips a millimetre away from touching the wild artful but soft mess.  
  
Gibson almost double takes in gawking confusion - opening and closing his mouth as he soaks in the question asked. “Shit Tommy,” he replies in his heavily accented voice. “Shit. Blood. Sweat. Dirt. French slurs. More shit.”  
  
Tommy pulls a face at him, hating him for bringing him back to reality when his fucking curls are still in front of his fucking face.  
  
“You forgot the splash of seawater,” he just has to snarkily add before slowly threading his fingers through his boyfriend’s curls, his heart almost stopping in his chest - almost about to jizz in his pants from how unbelievably soft those perfect curls feel between his fingers. Sucking in his breath, he half closes his eyes as he continues to weave his fingers through his curls (he might as well be riding his thigh at this point) and softly prodding at his scalp to make sure he has no wig on. For an extra measure, he gives one of his curls a definite tug which has Gibson growling incomprehensible curses in French in the shell of his ear but he doesn’t care about that. The curls the curls the curls the curls.  
  
“Jesus christ,” Tommy half moans out as he continues to feel through his hair before just pulling his face away from Gibson’s to just shove himself into his hair so he can get a good whiff. It’s true, Gibson’s curls do faintly smell of shit, sweat, dirt and more shirt but Tommy can barely register the foul scents. It’s all about the curls that oh so lovingly tickle at his nose.  
  
Gibson, meanwhile, is left in the dark. But he reckons it must be a British fetish to be getting off from a mop of hair. What did Tommy call him before as well? A cuppa? Is that slang for a nice head full of curls? So he lets Tommy climb on his lap so he can observe him oogling over his hair. The Brits are fucking weird.  
  


* * *

  
When the two are safely reunited and rescued on the comforting deck of Moonstone, the very first thing Tommy notices about Gibson (besides the fact that he is very much alive) is that all the near-to-death drowning experiences they had together has matted down his curls. Tommy is outraged.  
  
“What happened Gibson?” he cries out in dismay, almost about to break into tears as he fights down the overwhelming emotions to see his boyfriend’s perfect head in one piece. “What the fuck did they do to you… what the fuck… they messed you up.” with his eyes blazing over in seething rage, he scans over the overcrowded deck to find his culprit.  
  
Alex.  
  
Their eyes meet and Alex immediately avoids his gaze by pretending to engage in conversation with the air. But Tommy marches over with gritted teeth and clenched fists.  
  
“What the hell Alex? Seriously?” he practically growls out between his clenched teeth. “You didn’t try saving him? You didn’t help the man out who saved your sorry arse not once but thrice? Oh, I get it now. You just want to deprive the world of curls. You want to hurt me for interfering with your little egoistic speech. Acting like the French have done nothing for us when they have opened up our eyes to the treasures of the world we’ve missed out before on because we’re a stupid English lot who don’t know how to style hair!”  
  
Alex as well stares at him in confusion before raising a brow. “What the fuck are you going on about Tommy? Have you lost it? Jesus, have a cuppa will you mate. Calm the fuck down. I’ll do some tea leaf reading for you. Oh wait - I don't have to: the French have drove you bonkers mate. What is it about them? The French air? Do they smell of fresh baguettes? Tommy lad, they have nothing on us when it comes to bread and jam. Helloooo, are you still English or have you gone full baguette?” he frantically waves a hand in front of Tommy’s face which he lightly smacks away.

Gibson, being within earshot, immediately throws Alex a dirty look before shuffling over to Tommy's side to whisper in his ear. “That highlander goat ruined my hair Tommy. Let’s get him later on.”

Gibson's words are all Tommy needs to hear. Immediately snarling at the now frightened highlander goat, he throws him one last glowering look before tugging Gibson away from him. “I would watch your back Alex. Someone might steal your bread and jam.”

_“Oh for fuck’s sake mate leave my food alone, it's my only source of joy left!”_

_  
_

* * *

  


When they reach home and pile onto the train, Tommy makes sure that Gibson gets the window seat before sliding down besides him. He can't stop grinning which confuses Alex and Gibson alike although the highlander goat is just happy that Tommy has forgotten about his death wish. But that doesn't make him too happy either. What the hell is the fool so happy about?  


“Nice Tommy, nice.” Alex drawls out sarcastically with folded arms as he gazes at how Gibson slumps onto Tommy's side with his eyes fluttering shut. Tommy is over the moon. The soft curls are tickling his cheek now and he stares at them with glimmering eyes as if he discovered the ninth wonder of the world.

Alex isn't having it being ignored. Slamming a palm down on the table between the two, Tommy immediately glares daggers at him with his nostrils flaring in annoyance. “Some people are trying to sleep here Alex. It's what sane people do, you know.”

“No sane person would be smiling right after they escaped from the clutches of Nazi territory, you prat.” Alex scoffs in contempt with his jealousy flaring up to see how defensive Tommy is getting again for Gibson. “The fuck are you so happy about? Getting a French lover boy? Whoop de fucking doo. You know my rights are being undisposably neglected as a single man. Stop rubbing it my face. Prat.”

“You mean indisputably, Alex.” Tommy sighs as he gazes down at Gibson's now fully asleep face. What an angelic sight. The warm sunlight is bouncing off the curls to reflect the multitude of dark shades glistening from the curls. He can't stop grinning now and his cheeks are beginning to hurt as he definitely can't hear Alex mimicking him with gagging noises in the background. An ecstatic puddle of happiness pools in the pit of his stomach. He survived the war and gets to keep the curly haired boyfriend. Win-win.

“ _JustlookatthecurlsAlex._ ” Tommy can't help but squeaking in one breath, his inner fanboy coming out now. “Look. At. Those. Curls. Have you ever seen such perfect rounded curls before? Ugh. Jesus. Yes, he is like Jesus I suppose. Our curly-haired saviour… was Jesus this handsome too?”

Alex stares at Tommy in outrage now when clearly he is the curly-haired Greek God gracing Tommy’s ungrateful arse in the moment.

“Curls?” Alex inquires nonchalantly as he casually flicks his own floppy curls, swishing them subtly from side to side. “You don't have to go to the French for curls Tommy boy. Look at the goldmine right in front of you.”

All he receives is cold silence since Tommy is staring at Gibson’s curls with major heart-eyes and breaks out fanboying again. “How did he keep such perfect curls during the war?! Is it his genes?! He looks like one of those poster model boys Alex. Look, if I flick them, they bounce so much. How do you explain that?!” For emphasis, Tommy demonstrates and he cannot contain his noises in as he watches the curls bounce and sway around in the sunlight. He whimpers out softly, “I cannot believe I've met the curly-haired god himself… Alex… How do I explain this to him? He must think I'm super weird, right...”

Alex stares at him in disbelief as he continues to jiggle in his spot in hope for some compliment about his own curls. He snorts out, “You are super weird mate. Squealing like a little pig over some fucking hair. Acting like he's the only one with curls in the world. Open your eyes Tommy. There are better-looking men out there with curly hair. In fact, some of them are too handsome that they must have blinded you which explains your shit eyesight right now...”

Alas, his words disappear without acknowledgement since Tommy is too busy rehearsing his lines for when Gibson wakes up. “Your hair is fantastique babe. Magnifique. Gorgefique. Beautifique. Nous avons une belle vue.” the sudden French takes over his spirit and soul as Tommy continues his feverish ardent religious chant glorifying Gibson's hair.

Alex can only gape at him in amazement.

  


* * *

  


When the trio finally get the opportunity to indulge in a hot shower, Alex is determined to wash his “curls” to their prime to prove to Tommy for once and for all that the English do curls better. So in his own passionate washing session, he completely ignores how Tommy nervously keeps glancing at Gibson’s damp hair and hovering about him. The absolute agony of not seeing his curls in full glory puts Tommy on edge as if the curls symbolise Gibson’s vitality. The proof of his breathing, that is he very much alive and well. But only through the curls dancing around in the light breeze.

“Let’s go,” Tommy urgently hurries Gibson as he is impatient to drag him back in the sunlight so his hair will dry quicker.

“Wait for me loser!” Alex protests loudly out of nowhere, speeding up before stepping out to grab his towel dramatically so he can fluff his hair up with it - all done in slow motion. But a single glance isn’t thrown the direction of his dramatic arse which gets him slowly working up a sullen tantrum that his English curls are being slept on.

Tommy and Gibson are too absorbed in their own world to give Alex the slightest bit of attention. And Tommy somehow gets them changed into a fresh pair of clothes and out in the sun within the next seventy five seconds. Scanning the horizon keenly, Tommy eventually picks the optimum spot for sun drying and he enthusiastically tugs on Gibson’s hands to sit down on the bench. “Here, sit here! Your hair will dry up in no time! I’m just going to…” Tommy perches himself on the bench beside him, his face cupped in his palms so he can gaze adoringly at Gibson and his curls getting roasted in the sun.

“Did I tell you yet?” Tommy grins away at him. “You may have noticed that I have been a bit distracted, or a bit off shall I say… but I swear it’s only because I realised how perfect your hair is. I love your curls. I think they are magnifique.” Gibson chuckles at the little hair love confession and he is about to summon his energy to say something equally romantic in English about Tommy’s face but before he can, Tommy continues with his awful French pronunciation attempting to drawl out, “Beatifique. Gorgetique. Fantastique.”

Gibson freezes up. What on earth is he blithering out? Is that supposed to be French? He starts rethinking his choices and as if to confirm that he is in the land of weirdos, Alex comes huffing out to them with his cheeks reddened in annoyance.

“Oi!” he hollers at Tommy as he musses up his hair before striking multiple poses in front of Gibson. “Can’t you see that my curls are obviously way more healthier than this French baguette? The volume, the texture, the roundness, the every fucking thing is perfect. Can’t a man’s curls be appreciated around here anymore?!”

Tommy throws Alex a disgusted look before glancing back to Gibson, his expression immediately softening as he smiles apologetically at him. “I’m so sorry you had to hear that baby… it isn’t true. Nous avons une belle vue. Absolutely magnifique. That? Fantastique.” he gestures at his curls again before blowing a kiss at them on impulse.  

“Oi, speak English you’re in England you wanker!” Alex, in his fit of rage, lunges to the grass to rip up random bits of grass to aggressively toss it at the lovey dovey couple but they don’t even bat an eye in his direction. If anything, the grass acts as wedding confetti since Gibson is now staring back at Tommy with even bigger heart eyes.

“Je t'aime plus que tout au monde. Je mourrais pour toi. Je tuerais mille chèvres de montagne pour vous.” Gibson hushes out as he stares at Tommy adoringly, slightly shaking his head which gets his curls swaying slightly and that elicits a heart attack from Tommy who falls off from the bench.

“J-je t’aime...” Tommy stammers in response with his cheeks burning bright - unable to believe his ears - before pointing at the curls. “Your hair! You are so perfect Gibson, I swear to god. I think you’re an angel. You are the most perfect human being. The proof is your curls.” he scrambles up to gingerly thread his fingers through his hair again, humming in contentment as he gets to feel his extra soft curls now. Another small moan escapes from his lips as he leans in to get a whiff of his now soap-scented locks. Heaven.

“Alex,” Gibson gruffly acknowledges the raging highlander goat. “Why you English are so obsessed with this cuppas? Tommy like mine too much more than how you love acting like a goat.” he curiously points at the Tommy who is now practically on top of his lap again with his face buried in his curls, going on with his magnifique-fantastique chant.

Alex throws a look of disdain which Tommy somehow senses as his head whips around to glare at him again, getting off Gibson’s lap again so he can point at his curls dramatically. “Alex, can’t you see how soft his curls are? You see, his curls saved my life. Look at the texture. So magnifique. They are the perfect amount of ringlets because when the sun shines light on them, like right now, you can see the different colours of his hair. Look, he’s got some blonde too!” he enthuses passionately as he gently runs his fingers through his curls again.

“Oh, you may be right about that lad.” Alex leans in, bedazzled by Tommy’s description and how Gibson’s curls are indeed reflecting art from Van Gogh. He reaches out instinctively but Tommy’s hand comes down fast and hard.

“Hands off Alex or I swear to god, you will wake up to a jamless Britain tomorrow.”

Of course, Alex’s existence is forgotten again the moment the breeze tickles the air and Tommy is enraptured by how the drying curls moe along in the wind. 

“ _Fantastique hair!_ ”  



End file.
